


An Exploration of Beauty

by rookandpawn



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-01-31 01:14:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21437758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rookandpawn/pseuds/rookandpawn
Summary: She hates him because he’s standing on the treadmill next to her when her physiotherapist tells her she’ll never dance again.It’s too bad that she hates him really. He seems like a nice enough guy. Laughing and joking with the therapists and other patients. Never giving up, even when she can see the pain he hides, the pain she knows so well, run across his face.
Relationships: Scott Moir & Tessa Virtue, Scott Moir/Tessa Virtue
Comments: 46
Kudos: 247





	An Exploration of Beauty

**Author's Note:**

> I went to see a Cirque du Soleil show and was blown a way by the beauty for beauty's sake, and inspired to write this.
> 
> Thanks as always, to Walkinrobe (the world's greatest sounding board and friend), LPM who edits the mistakes and understands the beauty. And awakeanddreaming and mycatcanwrite who offered a supportive shoulder along the way.

An Exploration of Beauty

She hates him because he’s standing on the treadmill next to her when her physiotherapist tells her she’ll never dance again.

It’s too bad that she hates him really. He seems like a nice enough guy. Laughing and joking with the therapists and other patients. Never giving up, even when she can see the pain he hides, the pain she knows so well, run across his face. 

He’s said good morning to her every time she's walked into physio, and doesn’t stop even when she scowls at him. And all the employees fawn him, although she imagines that has as more to do with his looks than his demeanour. Or maybe it’s a combination of both. 

Not that it matters, because she hates him.

Hates the whole world right now, because it’s taken away the one thing in her life that was good, and reliable and beautiful and left her with nothing. She can’t take it out on the whole world, so she takes it out on him. Because all she can think about, when she goes back to the moment they told her, is the sympathy in his eyes and how she doesn’t need sympathy. 

She needs fire.

She needs someone who believes she can get better. Because even though everyone else has given up, she hasn’t.

“I’m supposed to be on the treadmill,” she barks at him. It’s the first thing she’s ever said to him, refusing to acknowledge his hellos. 

She doesn’t know his name but she hates him all the same.

“Oh?” he says as he stops running. The grimace on his face transforms into a smile, but she saw it all the same. The horrible part of her, the part that she tries to keep a secret, enjoys seeing someone feel the same pain she does. “I didn’t know.”

“You should have.”

“It’s all yours.” He climbs off the treadmill and hands it over to her with a sweep of his arm, the stupid smile still on his face.

She climbs on and puts her earbuds in. Finds the playlist that makes her work the hardest and is about to begin when she realizes that he’s still standing there.

“Are you going to watch me?”

The smile falters for a moment, but he recovers. “I’m not sure where I’m going next. Heather had to go deal with an emergency.”

Heather is her favourite physiotherapist, so of course she’s working with him today.

“That’s not really my problem, now is it?” Something in the back of her mind tells her to stop. That she’s being unnecessarily mean. But she can’t. It’s the best she’s felt in a long time.

“I don’t suppose it is,” he agrees and looks like he wants to laugh.

She’s about to respond. There’s a profanity-ridden rant boiling in her mouth, when Heather comes trotting over.

“Sorry, vomit related emergency,” she explains and smiles. She doesn’t mind as much when Heather smiles. “So, Scott let's get you over to the bands and see how that hip holds up.”

“They’ve won every week so far, but I’m feeling good about my chances today.” He winks at Heather, who laughs despite the joke not actually being funny. She's still laughing when he turns his attention back to where she’s waiting on the treadmill. “Have a good one.”

He limps a little when he walks away.

Scott.

It’s a stupid name, but at least now she knows who she’s directing her rage at.

There’s an envelope, with a messy letter T scrawled on the front, taped to the locker she stores her stuff in. She assumes it’s some kind of bill or notice about her schedule, but when she opens it all she finds is a line drawing of a field of dandelions. Despite the simplicity of the drawing, it looks like the whole field is in motion, as if all the flowers are about to burst and send their seeds out into the world. She can almost feel the sun on her face, the wind in her hair and the peace in her heart.

She can’t help her unwanted smile, but she tucks it away as quickly as it appears.

When she gets home she puts the picture beside her bed so she can see it when she wakes up in the morning.

When she’s assigned Heather as her therapist, it feels like a personal victory over Scott. It feels even better when she notices he’s working with Alexander, the world’s grumpiest therapist who often smells like onions. It turns her normally foul mood slightly sunnier.

Sunnier, until she notices that Scott is making Alexander laugh. She’s never seen Alexander crack a smile, let alone unleash a belly laugh. 

“Scott’s the best patient,” Heather says, following Tessa’s line of sight. “Always joking and he always gives one hundred percent.”

It feels like a personal attack, even though she’s sure that Heather didn’t mean it that way.

“If you like that sort of thing,” is all she can come up with for a retort.

“But it wasn’t always that way,” Heather says. There’s a sadness in her voice that Tessa ignores, choosing to focus on the pain in her calves instead.

There’s another envelope on her locker. The same messy T on the front. Inside she finds a dandelion. It’s turned white, but miraculously the seeds are still attached to the stem. She carefully carries it outside, makes a wish and blows. She allows herself to watch the seeds twist and blow in the wind until she can’t see them anymore.

She’s been ignoring her sister, because she doesn’t want to have a talk about her plans for the future. Her plans haven’t changed. It’s everyone’s perception of her plans that changed.

But Jordan isn’t a woman used to being ignored. She shows up at physio just as Tessa is leaving the locker room, hands on her hips and a gives-no-fucks look on her face.

“I didn’t know you were coming today.” She doesn’t bother to keep the defensiveness out of her voice.

“Purposely,” Jordan shoots back.

“You at least have to buy me a meal.”

“Deal.” They shake on it because they’re idiots and Jordan doesn’t trust her not to run away. “What’s that?”

Another day, another envelope. Inside this one she found a watercolour painting of a stained glassed window on a piece of card stock. The painting is gorgeous. The artist managed to make it look like light is streaming in through the window. But the part that intrigues her the most is the cat drawn off to the side, almost as an after thought. The cat has the most self satisfied expression on its face, as if it knows a secret that it will never tell, but lord over everyone. For some reason that makes her laugh, and every time she looks at the card, it makes her smile all over again.

“Nothing.” She hides it from Jordan by putting it in her bag, but being careful not to bend or crease it. Something this precious needs to be treated with care.

Scott comes charging out of the mens change room and almost runs into Jordan. He stops and blinks twice. Looks back and forth between them.

“You have a sister.”

“Not that it’s any of your business,” she snaps back.

“Tessa!” She’s never seen Jordan look so horrified.

“It’s nice to meet you,” he says with a nod of his head and a smile before leaving.

“He’s cute,” Jordan says as she watches him walk away.

“I wouldn’t know.” She refuses to do the same, even though deep down, she knows the view is worth it.

“Sure.”

There’s no envelope on her locker during her next visit. She feels choked by disappointment and then fury at herself for ever caring in the first place. She pulls the door of her locker open so hard that it slams into the one next to it. The sound of metal on metal reverberates through the room and makes her cheeks pink with embarrassment. 

She almost misses the kaleidoscope of butterflies that come tumbling out of her locker. They flutter and twist until they land at her feet. So believable that she thinks they’re real for a moment.

Each one is intricately painted and no two are alike. She giggles as she holds them in her hand and tries to figure out how they were loaded into her locker, how they flew. She’s no closer to an answer by the time she leaves but her heart is somehow lighter.

He isn’t there at her next appointment.

She’s not quite sure what to think. He’s always there. The room is darker and quieter without him around. Obviously a trick of her sleep deprived mind.

“It’s a hard day for him,” Heather says when she sees Tessa casing the room.

She wants to ask why, but the last thing she wants to do is seem like she cares, because she doesn’t.

There are no envelopes. No butterflies. Nothing when she goes to her locker. It couldn’t be him, could it? She hates him. Why would he do something nice for her? It doesn’t make any sense. She decides it’s a coincidence and leaves, but she spends some extra time admiring her gifts when she gets home.

He’s back at her next appointment. Smiling and laughing, but she knows a lie when she sees one. She’s an expert at plastering a smile on her face when all she wants to do is scream. So she nods at him when he looks her way. Relief floods his face, and he nods back, holds her gaze for a minute before forcing his face back into the smile.

She walks into the locker room and he’s standing there with his back to her, doesn’t sense her presence so she backs away. Waits in the shadows, but where she can still see what he’s doing, although she can’t really tell with his back to her. He works quickly and then leaves the room, but not before throwing a quick look in her direction. She flattens herself against the wall, and is struck by the absurdity of how she’s behaving.

But sure enough, it was her locker he was at. When she pulls it open, a string of white Christmas lights fall out. Along the string are a series of clothes pins. Attached to the one right in the middle, is another water colour. This one, is a dancer is motion, her face obscured, the long line of her neck and back the focus. The dance is sensual and joyful and she has to choke back a sob at the memory.

She races home and drapes the twinkle lights around her headboard. Attaches the previous drawings and each of the butterflies to the clothes pins. When she lays back in her bed, she’s surrounded by beauty. She sleeps with a whole heart and dreams of butterflies.

He doesn’t look like the kind of man who takes the bus, but there he is standing at the bus stop, leaning on a cane while he waits. Unlike everyone around him, he isn’t on his phone, or distracted by a book. He just stands quietly, absorbed by the world around him.

“You don’t use that at physio.” She wasn’t sure she was going to speak to him until the words are out of her mouth.

“Hello, Tessa.” His voice is low and smooth, and betrays no surprise to see her there, even if his eyes flicker with it. “I’ve never seen you at the bus stop before.”

“You didn’t answer my question.” She’s not really interested in pleasantries.

“Oh,” he looks down at the cane and then back at her. “I don’t want them to know it’s not working.”

He colours with embarrassment and she has to remind herself that she hates him. Still she offers him her arm when he struggles with the first step up to the bus. His hand is warm compared to her always cold ones. There is a layer of paint under his nails and faintly staining his skin, as if it’s become a part of who he is.

Two people offer them their seats on the crowed bus, after noticing his cane, and she doesn’t want to make a big deal about how they’re not together, so she sits beside him. The bodies of the other passengers are so thick around them, that it’s almost like being alone.

“Are you an artist? she whispers, because then words aren’t real. “Like for a living.”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to Google you.” Sometimes the thoughts inside her head have a way of leaping out of her mouth.

“I really wish you wouldn’t.” He’s so serious, in a way she’s never seen before.

“I won’t then.”

“Thank you.” He looks down at his hands, and shifts his hips a little closer to hers, as the person near him pushes into his space. They ease into a silence that she finds reassuring instead of oppressive. They both watch as he spreads his hands wide across his thighs and runs his fingers back and forth, almost as if he’s playing a piano.

“Why did you make all of those things for me?” Her voice is so unexpected that they both start from the sound.

“Did you like them?” A smile twitches at the corner of his mouth.

“I…” she wants to say something snarky, to share all the pain she has inside, but she can’t bring herself to. “I loved them. They’re beautiful.”

“This is my stop.” he says with a shrug, and then uses his cane to lever himself up out of the seat. “I wanted to make you happy,”

She grabs his hand before he can push through the crowd. “You did.”

He turns back and smiles at her and she watches until he's engulfed by people.

They’re working next to each other, him with the bands and her on the weights, so it seems appropriate to have a conversation.

“I think Alexander has a crush on Heather,” he whispers, tilting his head in the direction of the the therapists who are standing by the front desk chatting.

“No way,” she whispers back. There’s no reason to whisper, no one can hear them, but she has to admit it makes the conversation more fun.

“Yeah way,” he mimics

The laugh jumps from her throat and takes over her whole body.

“You’re going to get us in trouble,” he hisses in mock outrage, which only makes her laugh harder.

“Why would you say that?” she demands when she’s finally able to get her giggles under control.

“He asked me what kind of flowers I thought she would like.”

“What did you say?” She imagines Heather with her crazy curly hair and vivacious personality would like daisies. Brightly coloured ones at that.

“I said daisies, but that the real way to a woman’s heart is to give her chocolate.”

“You’re very wise.” She ignores their similar answer, doesn’t want to have that much in common with him.

“Well, it always worked with…” He stops short and pales, shakes his head and jumps up, almost toppling over before he can right himself. “I… I …”

He doesn’t have time to answer because Heather arrives and leads him away.

There’s no note on her locker and nothing inside. She can’t decide how she feels as she pulls on her jacket. It’s not like he owes her anything. Maybe he doesn’t want to continue now that he’s not anonymous anymore. She shouldn’t feel… disappointed, but some how she does.

Until she puts her hands in her jacket pockets and finds a pair of mittens that weren't there before. The mittens are warm and soft, and even more intriguing inside the thumb of one is a USB drive. She looks around for him. To say thank you? To demand an explanation? But he's nowhere to be seen.

The USB burns a hole in her pocket on the way home, a constant heavy weight for something so small and insignificant. She takes her coat off as she’s walking through the door, uncharacteristically abandoning it on the floor. She puts the mittens safely on the kitchen table right beside her laptop, which she throws open and inserts the USB.

She’s not sure what she was expecting but the music, labeled only Oltremare, fills her room and has her standing completely still for the entire ten minutes that it plays.

When it finishes, she wipes the tears off her cheeks and heads into her bedroom. She turns on her string of lights, sets her butterflies dancing, and starts the music again, before slipping the mittens onto her hands. She listens to it twice more, all the way through. The butterflies are replaced by dancers in her head. They twist and turn, stretch and reach, and she can see it all in her head.

She lays there for a long time after the music ends.

She thinks she should return the favour. Something after all that he's given her. But the only thing of beauty she’s ever had to give is the one thing that’s been taken away from her.

It makes her feel uncomfortable around him, this imbalance of gratitude. Makes her act even more awkward around him.

“You’ll get a better stretch if you point your toe and flex your hip.” 

He looks startled to hear her voice. It’s the first time she’s spoken in the almost fifteen minutes they’ve been next to each other.

“I thought I was.” He looks genuinely baffled, and that makes her smile. 

“Like this.” She puts her hand on his hip and pushes it back into the correct position. She’s had her hands on plenty of men’s hips before, for dance reasons and other circumstances, but it’s never felt this intimate before. His eyes find hers, his pupils blown wide. Her fingertips burn where they touch him.

She pulls her hand away slowly and tries to regain her equilibrium.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, looks as shaken as she feels.

“I was a dancer.” She’s not sure why she feels the need to explain.

“I know.” 

“Right, you heard them when…” she can’t finish the sentence. She refuses to accept that there’s any truth in what they told her.

“I saw you once. Perform. About a year ago,” he explains. Something dark crosses his features, but it’s gone and replaced with a mask. “You were mesmerizing.”

“Oh.” She doesn’t know what else to say. Her brain just keeps feeding her the same information over and over again.

“I painted you after,” he says, suddenly shy. “I’ll show you sometime if you want.”

“I’d like that.” 

She offers him a smile. And when Heather comes to collect her, for the first time she doesn’t want to leave.

The cat from the picture of the stained glass makes an appearance in the picture he leaves in her locker. This time he’s chasing the butterflies he left in her locker and the string of Christmas lights are wrapped around his tail. She decides the cat’s name is Pancakes.

It’s not the most beautiful thing he’s ever given her, but it makes her smile the most.

With no idea of how she can offer him beauty in return, she decides to try and do something nice for him. So, when she leaves and sees him waiting at the bus stop, she might as well offer him a ride.

He looks the car over three times before he finally nods his head and climbs in.  
“I’m an excellent driver,” she says in response to his worried face.

“I’m sure you are,” he agrees but his white knuckled grip on the door handle suggests he thinks other wise.

“I always keep my hands at ten and two. I shoulder check and use my mirrors.” 

“I just haven’t been in a car in a long time.”

It doesn’t make any sense. He’s obviously a man with money. He's not flashy about it, not by any means, but she can tell from the cut of his clothes, the quality of his shoes and the watch on his wrist. He’s clearly not someone who needs to take the bus, not to mention how difficult it is for him to navigate it with his cane and his limp. She can’t puzzle it out but she also doesn’t want to ask.

“I can go slower if you want.”

“That…” He sighs and clearly changes his mind about what he was going to say. “That would help.”

Oltremere comes on when she turns on the radio. She’s listened to it endlessly, the images of dancers haunting her every time she closes her eyes. Embarrassed, she tries to shut it off, but he stops her with a gentle touch. He lets his hand linger for a moment before pulling away, trailing a finger down her hand and across her wrist.

“I’m glad you like it.”

She should ask him where he lives but instead she says, “Would you like to come over for tea?”

“Are you sure?” There’s a little smile under the terror.

“It’s not like I have any other plans.” Her days have been empty since the surgery. She knows she has to figure out what to do with the rest of her life soon, the money she’s saved is only going to last for so long.

“You live at a grocery store?” he asks when she pulls into the parking lot.

“I need to buy the stuff to make the tea.”

She leaves him in the car and dashes through the rain that just started falling, straight into the store. Her jacket is soaked through and her shins burn by the time she reaches the door. The aisles are deserted, so she easily grabs a variety of teas and then heads to bakery section. She’s startled by the selection and just stands and looks around for a moment. Since she’s spent ninety percent of her life starving herself, she’s never given herself permission to look before. The treats are colourful rainbow of indulgence and she wants everyone of them. She giggles as she loads them into her basket, and is still smiling as she hands over her credit card. 

He’s waiting for her at the door. The rain has freed his overly gelled hair and his curls fall like a halo around his forehead. For the first time she notices, really notices, how handsome he is.

“I thought you could use a hand.” He shrugs and takes one of the bags from her hand.

Her smile doubles.

The rain has stopped by the time the arrive at her apartment, but it’s an old building so the damp and cold linger. She hands him her favourite fuzzy blanket from the couch and then cranks up the heat. It’s so quiet, she can hear the radiator rattle as it starts up. He slips the blanket onto his shoulders but stays in the doorway, as if he’s not sure if he should come in or not.

She pulls out a chair at the kitchen table and then busies herself the kettle. He hesitates for a moment and then finally sits down in the chair.

He’s quiet while she plates the treats. There are far too many of them. It’s totally excessive for two people, but she doesn’t care because the bright colours and sheer decadence makes her happy.

His easy smile is back when she turns around. Whatever was consuming him before is now a hint in his eyes.

“You have quite the sweet tooth,” he says with a nod towards the plates. There are three, so jammed with treats they’re falling over. She tried to arrange them artfully but she’s never had an eye for that sort of thing.

“I’m trying something new.” She grabs the first pastry she makes contact with and takes an enormous bite. He laughs and copies her.

It might be the best thing she’s ever tasted. The first bite she’s ever consumed that didn’t come with the bitter aftertaste of guilt.

“I like that picture of you.” He points at the only picture she has of herself in the house. It’s really more a picture of her partner, who was her friend and then her lover and now is barely an afterthought. She loves him with a nostalgia that makes her hold onto the picture with fondness rather than bile.

Most people don’t even notice its presence in her house. He’s a keen observer.

“Have you ever thought about getting a second opinion?”

“What?” she asks through a mouth full of pastry.

“About your legs.”

“They seemed pretty definitive when they said I’d never dance again.” 

“Actually they said you’d probably never dance again.” She just stares at him for a minute. “I was there.”

“I know. That’s why I hate you.”

“You hate me?” She almost laughs at his horrified expression.

“Not anymore.”

“That would have made tea really awkward.”

She likes his smile. Isn’t sure why it ever annoyed her.

“Do you really think it’s possible? That there might still be hope?” She can’t even fathom the possibility. She definitely hadn’t made peace with the declaration but she’d accepted it. The idea that it might not be her truth rocks her.

“I’m not an expert but it can’t hurt to try.” He takes a cookie shaped like a cat and places it on her plate. 

“But it might.” She’s not sure why she’s willing to tell him the truths she’s been hiding from everyone else. “I don’t know if I could go through that again.”

He reaches out slowly, gives her every chance to pull away, before he takes her hand in his.

“Expect the worst, be surprised by the best?” he offers. He holds her hand lightly, strokes her thumb with his.

“I already do that.” 

His laugh is so sudden that it surprises both of them and they dissolve into giggles.

“I’m not sure what you intended,” she explains as she opens the door to her bedroom. He’s been at her house for hours, and she’s throughly enjoyed the look of confusion on his face when she asked him to see her room. Let him twist for a bit before she clarified she meant that she wanted to show him what she’d done with his gift. “But this is what I came up with.”

She leaves him at the door, while she goes over to where she’s strung the lights above her bed. After plugging in the lights she joins him at the door.

He nods and smiles and she takes a chance and rests her head on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry if I overreacted when you asked me to join you in your bedroom,” he says keeping his hands firmly clasped in front of him.

“I should apologize. I was being a jerk. It’s kind of my thing.” She bumps her shoulder against his in what she hopes is a friendly and not aggressive gesture.

“I just haven’t had a beautiful woman invite me into her room in a long time. And I was surprised and if I’m being honest, very tempted.” A blush creeps up his neck and onto his cheeks as he speaks. She has to resist the temptation to touch all the places his embarrassment shows.

“I was tempted too,” she admits, has been for a long time if she’s being honest.

“And with that I should make my way home.” Takes one of her hands and places a quick kiss on it, before heading for the front door.

“Do you want me to give you a ride home?” Her hands are shaking and she can’t quite decide why, and hopes the nerves don’t show in her voice.

“I think I’ve had enough of cars for today. But thank you.”

She lets him leave without another word. No sure what words she would say even if she had the courage to say them.

There are pink peonies in her locker the next day, so full and vibrant that they look made up.

“Thank you for the tea.” 

She hadn’t heard his approach. He can be surprisingly quiet and graceful given his injury.

“Were you ever a dancer?” She finally looks up from her flowers to find him leaning against the doorway.

“Only in University in bars after three beers.”

“I would like to see that.” Not that she needs to, she can already picture it in her head. His sweaty forehead, his hands on her hips as they grind to the music.

“Those days are long past.”

“How old are you?”

He has one of those faces that will look young until he’s sixty. It’s only the pain that he tries to hide that makes her think he’s lived a lot of life.

“Thirty-six,” he answers with a shrug. She doesn’t offer her age back and he doesn’t ask. There’s an eleven year difference, but that hardly matters. “Can I make you dinner?”

“Are you asking me out on a date?” It sure seems like that’s where this is heading, might as well get it out there.

“I believe I am.” He gives her a smile that must work on other girls. It works on her.

“I thought you said the way to a woman’s heart is through chocolate?” she teases.

“If you look closely you’ll notice there’s a chocolate bar in the middle of that bouquet.”

Sure enough, there’s a Kit Kat bar hidden in the flowers.

“Guess it worked.”

She’s nervous as she stands at the door to his small house on a tree lined street. She was sure he’d live in some industrial loft, all chrome and concrete. As she stands on his porch, next to the creaking swing, she realizes that this fits more with what she’s come to know, than her earlier version.

She doesn't know what to do with her hands, so she passes the bottle of wine she brought back and forth. Getting ready had been a series of indecisive moments. What should she wear? What should she bring? Red or white? Is both too much? Condoms? Is she coming home tonight or doing the walk of shame tomorrow morning?

She never used to care. Sex and dating were fun and didn’t mean much to her. But this does. This feels weighty and important.

And she doesn’t like it.

But it thrills her.

“Sorry,” he apologizes as he throws the door open. “My hands were covered in egg and the kitchen is at the back of the house.”

“You weren’t that long.” Just eleven passes of the bottle between her mittened hands.

“Great.” He seems nervous too as he takes her coat and hangs it on a hook at the front door. Smiles as she hands him her mittens and places a hand on her back as he leads her down the hallway.

He’s wearing a teal blue, v-neck sweater and pressed jeans. Casual but she can tell he put in the effort. She’s glad she opted for the wrap dress and make up, and when she notices him looking her over, his eye lingering for a moment on her hint of cleavage, she’s sure she made the right decision.

“Why don’t I pour you a glass of wine and you can relax for a minute while I get dinner in the oven.”

When he disappears into the kitchen she allows herself the freedom to examine the living room without him watching. There’s a comfortable couch and a fire burning in the fire place. All of the furniture is appropriate and in order, but it’s as if every bit of personality has been scrubbed from the room. There are no pictures or knick-knacks, nothing to suggest the personality of the man who lives there. Scott is a friendly and open man, someone who clearly recognizes and enjoys beauty and yet there’s not a hint of that in the place he lives.

There’s a story and she wants to be told it.

“Where do you paint?” she asks when he hands her the glass of wine.

“There’s a studio out back.” He tilts his head towards the backyard. “It’s one of the things that drew us to the house.”

She isn’t sure if she should say something about the us slip. She could just let it go, but she’s not sure that either of them can move forward if she doesn’t say something.

“Us?” She takes a sip of wine to quell the anxiety.

“Um,” he mimics her drink, only his pull is deeper. “My wife and I.”

“Divorced?” It’s not a surprise really. A man his age is bound to have a past.

“Widower,” he says after another drink of wine.

“Want to talk about it?”

“Maybe later?”

“Whenever you’re ready.” She means it. He doesn't owe her his story. No one does.

He nods and finish his glass.

“Help me make a salad?” he offers her his hand, which she takes. She likes his hands, strong and beautiful, still faintly stained with paint. 

“If by help, you mean stand around and watch, then yes.”

He laughs as he leads her to the kitchen.

“There was a car accident,” he says after dinner when they’re sitting on the couch. He’d been his usual charming self during the meal, but she knows him well enough now to tell he was holding something back. “Everyone was killed but me.”

“Everyone?” 

He looks at the fire in the fire place instead of her.

“I don’t like to talk about it,” he explains and gives her hand a squeeze.

“Please don’t feel like you have to.” She doesn’t want to add to this man’s pain.

“I like you.” He looks at her this time. His smile is real and fills her up.

“I like you too.” She smiles back.

“I thought you hated me?”

“I’m over that now.” She slides a little closer to him, tries to offer him comfort in the warmth of her body. “It was the Kit Kat that turned everything around.”

“I knew it.”

They sit in silence for awhile, pressed up against each other while he makes a decision.

“The other driver was killed and…” he takes a deep breath, holds her hand so hard that it hurts. “My wife and son were too.”

His breathing shudders and he starts to cry. 

“Sorry,” he whispers between sobs. “This must be the worst date you’ve ever been on.”

“It’s not even in the top five.”

He’s trying so hard not to cry that he’s having trouble breathing and her heart breaks for him.

“Scott, can I… can I hold you?”

He can only nod in response, so she wraps her arms around him. Holds him tight as she leans back into the couch and he leans into her.

“Tell me about them,” she says long after he’s stopped crying. They’ve been laying on the couch long enough that the fire has gone out, and her hip is starting to throb from staying in one place for so long. He must sense her discomfort or maybe he just wants to buy some time because he moves off of her but invites her to rest on him, pulls a blanket on top of them.

“Hannah was the best person I’ve ever known,” he starts and she can hear the love in his voice. It warms her more than the blanket. “I was the luckiest guy in the world because she picked me.”

“How did you meet?”

“She lived in the apartment next to mine. I met her on the day I moved in. She amazed me, because she had this terrible childhood, but she refused to let it shape her. I had this habit of going to dark places and she pulled me out. She made me see so much beauty in the world.”

He cards his hand through her hair as he speaks, she’s not sure he knows he’s doing it. The combination of the gentle massage, the warmth of his chest and the tenderness in his voice make her drowsy and and content.

“We got married six months after we met. I expected everyone to think we were crazy, but they were ecstatic. We just fit, you know.”

She doesn’t know from a relationship perspective, having never felt that strongly about anyone. But dance has always been that for her. The part that fit, that made her whole. That’s why she grieves its absence the way he grieves his wife.

“She got pregnant with Thomas almost immediately. We weren’t even trying and I was terrified and selfish because I wanted more time for it to just be the two of us. But she looked at me and said "Of course we’ll have children, we have so much love to give” and somehow that made it better.”

“I bet you were an amazing dad.” Her mind rolls with images of him. Sleep deprived and taking care of a baby, teaching him to walk, finger painting with a toddler.

“I tried to be.” His voice cracks and he runs his hands down her back, pulls her a little closer. “He owned every part of me.”

She has so many questions, so many things that she wants to ask him. But she doesn’t want to push him, doesn’t want to break this man who might be held together with tape rather than glue. So she doesn’t ask, she bites her tongue and waits. No more of the story comes, so she lets it be. Enjoys the feeling of his gentle fingers stroking her back. There’s a clock ticking somewhere in the house and normally she’d find the repetitive noise annoying, but it soothes her, seems to tick in time to the beating of his heart.

“It’s late,” she says through a yawn. She thinks she might have already dozed off.

“You can stay if you want.” His voice thick with sleep. He stretches his neck as they sit up. “There’s only one room with a bed, but it’s all yours.”

She gives him a questioning look and he shrugs.

“I just couldn’t look at all their things anymore. The reminders were too much, so I boxed everything up and sent it away. My brothers said they donated it, but I think it’s all in Charlie’s basement waiting. Maybe I’ll be ready someday.”

That certainly explains the bareness of his house. She can see where picture frames used to hang and knick-knacks and toys used to sit as he leads her up the stairs and to a room at the end of the hall.

“This used to be the guest bedroom, but I use it now.” 

There’s a double bed and a dresser in the room. It’s starkly clean and there’s nothing to suggest that anyone calls it their own, let alone him. 

“Where are you going to sleep?” She doesn’t remember agreeing to stay but she’d rather not drive home.

“The couch is very comfortable.”

“We can share,” she says through her yawn.

“Are you sure?”

“Well, I do have wandering hands, but I think I can manage to restrain myself this one time,” she snarks at him and receives a kiss on her head for her efforts.

“Ok.” He goes to the dresser and returns with two t-shirts. He hands one to her, and then ever the gentleman, leaves the room so she can change. 

She leaves her discarded clothes in the middle of the floor as a fuck you to the cleanliness of the room and climbs into bed. She should probably ask him what side he sleeps on but she takes the one furthest from the door. He needs the shake up of routine.

She’s half asleep by the time he returns. He settles in as far from her as he can be, so she moves over and throws an arm around him. Dares a kiss to his cheek.

His whispered “Thank you” is the last thing she hears before she drifts to sleep.

They wake up on opposite sides of the bed. No surprise, since she hates being touched while she sleeps. She’s stolen the duvet and cocooned it around her body, leaving him blanket less and snoring. 

She likes seeing him like this. There’s no pretence in his face, no attempts to hide his sorrow. No sorrow at all. He’s at peace in his sleep.

He snorts awake and that makes her like him even more.

“Oh, hi,” he blinks twice, like he can’t quite believe she’s real. 

“I’m going to kiss you now,” she says. “Because I don’t give a shit about morning breath.”

It’s a good first kiss. A little messy until they find their groove, but satisfying and promising. So very, very satisfying.

“What time do you have physio at?”

Neither of them bother to get out of bed. She likes to lounge after she wakes up, is enjoying the simple luxury now that every minute of everyday isn’t occupied. He seems reluctant to move, as well, so she lets him have a little of the blanket.

“Nine thirty. You?”

“Same.”

It’s a little after seven and still dark. She wants to bury down into the blankets and sleep for another couple hours, but she’s not sure what the protocols are for post-platonic sleepovers. Luckily, he saves her.

“I could make us breakfast, and then we could go together,” he offers, twists to face her, so they’re nose to nose.

“I can drive us.” His face instantly pales. “Or we can take the bus.”

“No, we’ll drive. I need to get over it.”

“But maybe not all at once.”

He laughs at her and she feels like she won a prize. When he leans over and kisses her again, kisses her until she’s breathless and overwhelmed, she knows she’s won even more.

He tells her about his family in pieces.

While he makes pancakes and she helps by watching, he tells her about Hannah. A red head with pale skin and freckles, always forgot her sunscreen at home. How after one too many catastrophic sunburns, he started carrying extra in his backpack and she started calling him the sunscreen police, but always lathered it on with a smile, dabbing a bit on his nose when she was done.

They drive over to her place, because even though she has work out wear in her car she could change into, she wants to shower at her place with her things. He holds onto the door like it’s suddenly going to fall off, even though she drives well under the speed limit, so much so, that people honk at her.

He hums Yellow Submarine under his breath, she assumes as a distraction. When she comments on it, he tells her that it was Thomas’ favourite song. The octopus was his favourite animal and Scott couldn’t stop buying him stuffed ones, even when Hannah told him to stop because their house was overrun with octopi. That Thomas thought the word octopi was made up and went around shouting it like a battle cry at the top of his lungs until Hannah threatened to make both of them live in the studio if he didn’t stop.

There’s something illicit and wonderful about showering while he’s sitting in her living room, just on the other side of the wall. Almost as if he were in the room with her. It’s not where her mind should be, but it travels there anyway. He’s awakened something in her that was long dormant. The more he shares with her, the more she wants.

On the bus, she can’t possibly subject either of them to another car trip, he tells her how much fun it was growing up with two older brothers. He holds her hand as while he explains how their families, all his nieces and nephews were one of the only things that helped him through the dark times right after the accident.

She wonders if anyone notices that they arrive at physio together. No one says anything but she thinks she sees a knowing look on Heather’s face. 

She’s about to tell her where she can stick her smirks, when Heather whispers, “Alexander and I are going out tonight. If I showed you some pictures of outfits, would you help me pick one out?”

At first she’s not sure what to do. Is sure that Heather is making fun of her somehow, but the smile and the request are genuine. She’s never had a girlfriend before. Ballet was too competitive for close friendships and she was too single minded about her goal, but she imagines that this whispered confidence must be what it’s like.

“Oh, sure.”

“Alexander wants me to help him pick out a tie for his date with Heather.” Scott says as he passes her near the treadmill.

She doesn’t know how he does it. She thought she had an eye on him the whole time they were on the floor, but when she gets to her locker, there’s an envelope there. The same messy T scrawled on the front. Can you have nostalgia for something so new?

It’s a picture of her. A simple line drawing but done with care. She recognizes it as the moment they were sitting on the couch. She looks kind and generous in the picture. It’s not how she thinks of herself, but she loves that he sees her that way.

So she invites him to lunch. But somewhere within walking distance. She can’t handle the bus.

It’s her turn to share over lunch. Not because he insists but because she wants to tell him. She wants to give him more pieces of her than she’s ever given to anyone before.

“I left home to go to the National Ballet School when I was in grade six,” she says as he’s about to take a bite of his sandwich. “I haven’t been back since.”

With the exception of a few vacations, she’s avoided spending more than a week with her family. She feels like a visitor rather than a participant. She and Jordan have reached a cautious friendship, and her parents are her parents, but the ballet is the only place she’s ever felt a sense of belonging.

He listens to her talk with his whole body, nodding, smiling frowning when appropriate, but turning towards her, leaning or taking her hand when the words are difficult. She wonders if it’s the artist in him, the observer that makes him act that way, or if it’s just the Scott of him.

“My legs started hurting when I was nineteen, and at first I thought it was stress fractures, but then I was diagnosed with compartment syndrome. So I had surgery.” She tries to sound casual about it, like it wasn’t the most frightening thing that ever happened to her. He’s not fooled, his hand wrapping around her fingers, lightly tapping them.

“And it worked?”

“For a while, and then when it didn’t I danced in pain.” Pain is a ballerina’s constant companion. Point shoes are torture devices, the human body isn’t meant to defy gravity, to bend and twist in the way she does. She could handle the pain, welcomed it like a friend, until it became an enemy.

He frowns, but nods in understanding, “Painting is like that sometimes. If I do it for too long my hands start to cramp, but I can’t stop while the inspiration is flowing. Hannah was sure I’d end up with arthritis the way I was going, but then she’d…”

It’s the first time he’s stopped himself since he started talking about her. She doesn’t want him to think he has to hide how he felt about his wife. As if he could, it seeps through every part of him.

“Go on.”

“She’d kiss each of my fingers and tell me that would make them better.” A smile tugs at his lips, she can see the fondness of the memory in his eyes. “And after awhile, Thomas would too.”

“I wish someone could kiss my legs and make them better.”

“I could try that later.” This smile is made up of an entirely different emotion, and she blushes at the promise it holds. 

“So I had surgery again,” she says trying to control the uncontrollable ache in her chest. “This one didn’t work as well. Or at all.”

“How’s the second opinion coming?”

“I have an appointment with someone on Friday.” She wasn’t sure if she was going to tell him. “But I don't have much hope.”

“Expect the worst, be surprised by the best.”

“It’s my life philosophy.”

“Do you want some company?” he offers, stroking her thumb. She hadn’t realized they were still holding hands.

“You’d do that?” She shouldn’t be surprised, but somehow she always is by nonreciprocal kindness.

He just gives her a look and they finish lunch holding hands.

They should part after lunch. It doesn’t make sense for them to continue spending time together, but she doesn’t want him to leave, sure that this bubble of happiness will pop as soon as he leaves her side. He seems equally reluctant to go, so they stand in front of the restaurant for long enough that her legs start to ache and he starts shifting from foot to foot, resting more and more heavily on his cane.

“Do you have something to do?” she gives in and gives him the opportunity to leave.

“I should paint. I have a show in just over a week and I’m a bit behind. You?”

“I have some research to do,” she says and motions to the laptop bag she’s carrying. She’s decided that no matter the outcome of her specialist appointment that she needs to start thinking about the future. It’s not too late for her to go back to school, she’s only twenty-five. Has no idea what she wants to study, but that’s the point of the research.

“Do you want to come to my house? You could work while I paint.” It’s the first time she’s seen him shy about anything.

“I don’t…” she should be getting tired of him. She should need her space, but she wants to say yes.

“We could get a cab.”

“The bus is fine,” she says with a sigh. She’s going to need to get a pass.

When they arrive at his house, he makes her a cup of tea, gives her the wifi password, it’s octopi, kisses her on the head and then leaves for his studio. She doesn’t offer to join him, she suspects that she’d just be a distraction, that she’d want to be a distraction. And sometimes creation is a solo project.

Her research answers most of her questions and creates about twice as many more. She’s feeling hopeful and frustrated by the time she's done. Not to mention a little cranky from lack of sleep. So she decides to take a nap. It’s that or snooping and she thinks their relationship isn’t at the snooping stage yet. She drifts off wondering if what they have can be considered a relationship.

And wakes up to the feeling of his lips on hers.

“It works on all sleeping beauties, apparently.”

She must have been out for awhile, because the room has grown dark. As her eyes adjust, she notices that he has paint in his hair and flecks of it on his cheek. She rubs a thumb across the dried bit there.

“Want stay for dinner?” he asks, kisses her again. “I have soup and sourdough bread. There might be some ice cream in the freezer.”

“You had me at bread.” He laughs as she pulls him closer, so he’s laying on her. She likes the weight of his body on hers, as if he could anchor her in place. 

“Are we going to make out or start food prep?” he asks as she nips at his lips, explores his back with her hands. She believes that he’d be up for either, and likes the easy going part of him.

“Feed me,” she concedes. If she keeps exploring, it could be a long time before she gets any food.

He tries to jump up, but doesn’t have the right leverage, so he rolls off and ends up on the floor. He grins like it’s the best game, so she takes pity on him and hauls him to his feet.

She watches as he washes his hands with the precision of a surgeon, but still leaves the faint stain of colour behind. This time blue. His hands fascinate her, their strength and their precision, the way the can create beauty. 

“Have you had sex since your wife died?”

The pot he’s holding hits the counter with a clang.

“Sorry, that was… inappropriate. I’m inappropriate.”

“No, it’s fine.” He takes a deep breath. “It’s a reasonable question, I just wasn’t expecting it during soup preparation.”

“Surprise,” she offers and he laughs.

He finished putting the soup into the pot and starts cutting the bread before he answers.

“I have had sex since Hannah died.” He concentrates on the bread instead of making eye contact with her. A faint blush paints his cheeks. “I have this friend Nat, I’ve known her my whole life, but we’ve always been just friends. She was over, I don’t know, maybe six months after the accident and we’d been drinking, but we weren’t drunk. For some reason it’s important to me that you understand that part.”

“I understand that part.”

He looks at her and smiles, before continuing, “Nat wanted to know if I’d had sex yet and when I said no she insisted that it was her responsibility to endure having sex with me.”

“She sounds like a great friend,” she’s not sure if she’s being facetious or not.

“She is actually. The best kind of friend.” The fondness is back in his voice and she wants very badly to be someone he describes in that way. “She said that ‘my first time back in the saddle was going to be a disaster and it might as well be with her, because at least she’d still speak to me after.”

He goes silent and a smirk crosses his face.

“And was it terrible?”

“Oh, God. It was awful.” His emphatic answer and horrified expression send her into a fit of giggles.

“No, it was.” He giggles with her. “I could barely get it up and then when I did I started crying, and then I progressed to sobbing and a snotty nose. But Nat was determined, and, well, let’s just say it was not a satisfying conclusion for either of us.”

He just shakes his head, but his horror is almost instantly replaced with a grin as he moves to stir the soup. “I will give her credit, she did speak to me the next day. Although, we never, ever talk about that night.”

“And have you, since?”

“No,” he says each letter carefully.

“The second time is definitely going to be better.”

This time the spoon hits the counter with a clatter.

“I’d really like to sleep in my own bed tonight,” she says as they linger over ice cream. “But you’re welcome to join me.”

He orders the cab, himself. Holds her hand so tight on the drive over that it aches. 

“You were right,” he says as she snuggles into him. Her bed is so much nicer than his. “That was better.”

“Just better?”

“Spectacular,” he says pulling her closer and kissing her forehead.

“I thought so too.”

“It definitely sounded like that’s what you thought. Twice.”

She hits him with a pillow, twice, before they settle in to sleep.

The logical part of her brain tells her they’re spending too much time together. That’s the part that tells him that they need a night apart. The other part of her brain, the part controlled by her heart and somewhat by her libido shows up at one in the morning and stays for two days.

They finally part when Jordan insists on a lunch date and will not take no for an answer, threatening to send their mother after her if she doesn’t comply with her demands. Her sister always did know how to move her into action.

“You look happy. Why do you look happy?” Jordan demands as soon as they’re seated.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She tries to remind herself she loves her sister by ignoring her. “I think I’ll have a hamburger.”

“What the fuck? Happy and a hamburger? Are you having sex?”

“Jordan, people two towns over heard that, could you…just…not?”

Jordan stares at her for a moment, a puzzled look immediately followed by a grin.

“Are you in love?”

“What? No. I don’t do that.” She doesn’t. Love is for suckers. 

Except when she hears Scott talk about his family, the utter adoration he still feels for them woven through ever syllable, she wants that for herself. Wants that from him for herself.

“I’m seeing someone,” she says when the food arrives. They’ve talked about Jordan’s job, her upcoming specialist appointment and whether or not it’s appropriate for their mother to have younger boyfriend. A much, much younger boyfriend. But she’s been thinking about Scott the whole time. 

“I’ve never heard you admit that before.” Jordan puts down the sandwich she was about to take a bite of.

“I don’t know if I’ve ever been able to say it before.”

Flings, romances, one night stands, she’s done all of those. But a relationship, a true and adult relationship, she’s never even considered one. She knows they’ve only know each other for a short time, only truly been dating for a week, but this feels so different than anything that came before.

“Is he the guy from physio?” 

“How did you know that?” She hates her sister. She well and truly does.

“I’ve never seen you be so mean to someone for absolutely no reason.”

“I had a reason!” She can’t remember what it was, but she’s sure she was justified.

“Was your reason because you wanted to fuck him?” Jordan raises one perfectly plucked eyebrow.

“Jordan,” she barks again, sighs and feels her face burn. “Probably.”

“I’m happy for you.” Jordan’s answer surprises her. They’ve never really had a relationship where they support one another. Maybe it’s time to give it a try.

“I’m happy for me too.”

“Well, it’s about fucking time.” Jordan clinks her glass and downs what’s left.

She loves her sister. She well and truly does.

He holds her hand on the bus. He holds her hand while they’re waiting for the specialist. He only lets go when she leaves to go in for her appointment. It seems that now that he’s started to hold her hand, he never wants to let her go. And she thinks, she might feel the same.

“I have some good news and some less good news, Tessa,” the specialist, who’s name is Ken, says. She tries not to let hope invade her heart at his words, but she can’t help herself. Scott’s hand is firmly in hers, after she insisted he join her while they discuss the results.

“Oh?” she manages.

“I think you can dance again, but it won’t be easy.”

Ken explains that he doesn’t think another surgery will help, but what she can do is completely retrain her body to move differently. That if she can retrain all her muscles, from walking all the way through dancing, that she won’t be in pain anymore. It will take some time, and it will be frustrating, but ultimately, she should be able to dance at the level she could before.

‘Thank…” she can’t finish, because a sob takes over her whole body.

She’s never cried tears of joy before. 

Scott finishes the conversation as she tries to stop crying. Shaking Ken’s hand, as he wraps his arm around her shoulder, pulls her in tight and lets her soak his sweater with tears.

She finally stops crying on the bus.

“I can’t believe it. I just… I thought…”

“I know,” he strokes her hair. “I was wondering if I could learn with you? We could do it together, and who knows it might help my hip.”

And with that, she’s crying all over again.

“Jordan!” she screams into her cell phone. “What do you wear to an art show opening?”

She was naked when he asked her to be his date for his show opening and she’d been persuaded to say yes by the way his lips felt on the back of her neck. She shouldn’t be held accountable for any decisions made while he’s doing that to the back of her neck.

Because she has no idea what you wear to an art show opening, or how to behave or what to do with her hair, which is why she’s standing in her underwear in the middle bedroom, surrounded by every piece of clothing she’s ever own and some she’s not sure are hers.

“Did you know that I don’t own anything other than athletic wear and jeans?” she demands before Jordan has a chance to answer. And ball gowns, she has like twenty ball gowns.

“Would you like me to come over and bring some clothes?” Jordan is far calmer than the situation warrants.

“And also come with me to the show?” She needs moral support. And physical support and possibly someone to stop her from nervous drinking and making a fool of herself. To stop her from making a fool of herself without alcohol. Basically she needs someone who will show her how to act like a normal human being. Jordan might not be the best choice, but the only person she can force to do so through familial obligation. 

“Do I have to?” Jordan’s distaste rolls through the phone line and falls to the floor at her feet.

“Just get here as fast as you can.”

Because she’s a bitch, Jordan arrives thirty minutes later, looking perfectly put together and carrying a garment bag full of clothes.

“How are you already ready?” 

“Because not all of us take forty-five minutes to apply our make up, some of us just throw this shit on and walk out the door.” She gives Tessa’s bra and panties side eye before continuing. “And a nice jeans and a sparkly top are always the answer when you don’t know what to wear.”

“So I should wear that?” Her panic level is way past critical.

“As the girlfriend you need to look better than everyone else.”

“I’m not…” she stops short at Jordan’s death glare.

“I’m thinking a dress.” She rattles the garment bag. “I have eleven to choose from, so let’s get cracking.”

She feels a little hopeful because Jordan has excellent and expensive taste in clothing. At least she won’t look out of place.

“And we need to rethink those underwear choices,” Jordan says as she pushes her into the bedroom.

Tessa is used to wearing clothes that show off her body. As a ballerina she’s been in skin tight, revealing clothes her entire life. But that was onstage or in the rehearsal studio. So it doesn’t make sense that she feels uncomfortable in the form fitting black, backless dress that she and Jordan decided on. Black because it’s an art show and backless because she’s noticed that Scott really appreciates her back.

But from the second she takes off her coat, she feels like everyone is starting at her.

“Woman up,” is all Jordan says when she voices her discomfort. “And go look at your boyfriend’s art.”

“Please stop calling him that.”

“You know that just makes me want to do it more.”

Jordan grabs them each a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, before pushing Tessa in the direction of the pieces.

Because she believes that punctuality is the key to success, they’re some of the first people there. Even Scott hasn’t arrived yet, probably stuck on the bus. So she can wander freely and quietly.

His art is beautiful. Impressionistic and abstract but accessible. Layers of black, grey and white. The occasional shock of powder blue. Each painting tells a story. Many angry, most sad, devastated really. She can tell exactly when he painted them from the way they make her feel. His grief is palpable and real and she has tears in her eyes by the time she reaches the back of the exhibit. 

The final painting is at the back of the room, almost off to the side. At first she thinks that it’s as if it’s been forgotten. But it takes her only a moment to realize that here it’s protected. Safe from the cacophony of feelings that the invade the rest of the room.

A hand on her bare back is the only thing that draws her attention away from the painting. She knows those fingers. Knows the delicate way they touch her, even after such a short time.

“It’s my favourite picture.” 

The painting is the only piece that isn’t abstract. Instead of a swirl of emotions, it’s a portrait of woman and a little boy standing at the shoreline with their backs to the viewer. She knows it’s of Hannah and Thomas without having to ask. She’s never seen a picture of them, but she feels like she knows them from everything he’s told her.

But even without that knowledge she would know, because of the love that pours out of the canvas. The devotion she can see in each brush stroke. It gives her a sense of calm, and wonderment and makes the devastation of the previous paintings all the more palpable.

“It’s one of my favourites too.” His fingers work their way up her spine. “It’s not for sale but no one ever wants to buy it anyway. They just want sad and angry me.”

“Then they’re idiots.”

He kisses her, slow and thorough.

“You look…I don’t have words to describe what that dress does to me, but I could put my feelings on canvas and have another very lucrative show.” He circles her. Runs his hand across her abdomen, her side and then returns to her back. “But I think reds this time.”

“People are looking.” 

“Because they’re jealous I’m with the most beautiful woman in the room.” He smiles at her with his whole face, scrunches up his nose and forehead. “I have a present for you.”

“You’re not supposed to get me a present! It’s your opening.” She should have brought him something, can’t believe she didn’t think of it after everything he’s done for her.

“And I wanted to celebrate by getting you a gift.” He pulls out a a flat rectangular jewelry box. If he’s bought her jewelry she’ll kill him. She’ll wear the jewelry, but she’ll kill him.

She opens the unwrapped box slowly, savouring the unknown for a moment longer. Inside there’s a string of her butterflies, but this time dangling from a bracelet. 

“How?” Her hands shake as pulls the delicate piece out of the box.

“A friend of mine makes jewelry and he owed me a favour,” he says with a shrug as he helps her with the clasp. She raises her wrist so the the butterflies, that look like they’re made of glass, catch the light. The dance and sparkle, and fill her soul with joy.

“Come on we, we need to meet some people.” He pulls her toward the crowd and slips his hand in hers.

She too doesn’t have the words to explain how he makes her feel, but if she had to pick one, it would be cherished.

She’s exhausted by the time they make their way back to his house. She’s been standing in Jordan’s borrowed heels and making small talk for far too long. And if she’s tired, he must be exhausted, because he had time for every single person at the event. Talked to everyone as if they were a long time friend. Answered every question, no matter how ridiculous or personal. Smiled through Jordan’s interrogation and eventual departure. And kept a hand on her back or arm or waist the entire time.

She knows he’s tired because of the way he leaned on his cane. From the way he didn't offer a single protest when she suggested a cab home. Exhaustion and terror washing over his features as they sat silently in the backseat. He does ask the driver to slow down twice. She spends the ride home watching how her butterflies twist as she moves her arms, imagines what they would look like while she’s dancing.

“You’re quiet,” he says as he flops down on the couch. He loosens his tie and lets it hang from his collar. She wants to go to him and run her fingers through his hair, touch his cheek and collapse into his embrace, but she stays where she is on the other side of the couch. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know how to give it back to you, all the beauty you’ve brought into my life.” The fear had been at the back of her mind all evening, for days, if she’s being honest. 

“Tessa…”

“When they told me I couldn’t dance anymore, I thought that nothing could ever be beautiful again, but you gave me that back and I don’t know how I can ever do the same for you.”

He regards her carefully for a moment and then he stands up and offers her his hand.

“Can I show you something?”

He leads her through the house and the sliding glass doors to the backyard, ending their trip at the much spoken of, but never seen studio. He opens the door and lets her step in, before he turns on the lights.

It’s much as she imagined it, maybe bigger and tidier. He’s an organized person and everything has its place. There are a few canvases on the work bench, one on the easel that looks half done. It’s a bright and cozy space, warmer than she was expecting given that it isn’t connected to the house.

He limps as he walks to the back of the room, his cane forgotten in the house, to an area covered by a tarp and pulls out a smaller canvas, which he keeps turned away from her, tight to his body, while he walks back. 

“You already have given me so much beauty, and you gave the gift first.”

He turns the canvas around and it takes her a moment to realize that it’s her. She recognizes the costume as the one she wore in her last show with the National Ballet, but has never seen her neck look so elegant, her body as graceful, as what he’s captured in his painting.

“About a year after the accident. I was in a dark place. I didn’t see much point in going on. Everything I loved was gone, all I could paint was heartbreak, and all I could see was grey.”

He takes her hand and rubs a thumb across her knuckle.

“Nat made me go to the ballet. She insisted that I had to get out of the house or she was going to have sex with me again.”

She giggles. He can always make her giggle.

“And when I saw you, when I saw the way you moved, the way you loved what you did, my whole heart opened again, and I cried for the beauty of it, for the beauty of all the things I’d lost and for all the beautiful things that were still to come.” Tears trail down his cheeks as he talks.

“And I realized that Hannah would be so disappointed in me for not realizing all that I still had, instead of all the things I’d lost. That she would be furious at me for giving up. So I came home and I painted. I painted you and I painted butterflies and Thomas and her and all the things I’d refused. I painted until I couldn’t see and then I fell asleep on the floor, and when I woke up I painted some more. Which in retrospect I realize might not have been the healthiest behaviour.”

“Maybe not,” she puts the picture down so she can touch him, wipe his tears from his face.

“So when I saw you at physio and I could tell you were in the same place I had just escaped, well I had to return the favour. I had to give you back the beauty that you’d lost. But understand that you gave the gift first.”

They wrap their arms around each other and stand there for a long time.

“I’m so glad you found me,” she says when it’s finally safe to speak.

“How about we never let each other go,” he answers.

“How about.” It’s the one promise she knows he’ll always be able to keep.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm @rookandpawn1 over on twitter. Drama free for four days and counting.


End file.
